


Resplendent

by indefensibleselfindulgence



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Mutual Pining, Raphael Theory, Romance, Vacation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-05-18 14:15:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19336198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indefensibleselfindulgence/pseuds/indefensibleselfindulgence
Summary: “Take a vacation with me.”Aziraphale looks up from the counter, too busy doing inventory to possibly have heard that correctly. No, certainly Crowley, his friend Crowley who was currently leaning against his biography shelf in a way that was going to result in either him or the shelf meeting the ground in short order, couldn't possibly have- No. Certainly not.





	Resplendent

**Author's Note:**

> i just think they're neat

“Take a vacation with me.”  
  
Aziraphale looks up from the counter, too busy doing inventory to possibly have heard that correctly. No, certainly Crowley, his friend Crowley who was currently leaning against his biography shelf in a way that was going to result in either him or the shelf meeting the ground in short order, couldn't possibly have- No. Certainly not.  
  
“I'm sorry?”  
  
“Take a vacation with me, Angel.” He looks very charming, what with the lean and the new sunglasses that frame his face just so-  
  
“Who's going to watch the shop?” He asks, flipping a page in his ledger over without writing down so much as one number in it. “And after everything, so soon-”  
  
“Yeah but anyway.” Crowley pushes off of the shelf which does teeter, but not far enough to give Aziraphale a migraine he wouldn't be able to overcome for hours. “Come away with me.”  
  
“...Where?” It's just common sense this- knowing these sorts of things ahead of time.  
  
“Surprise.” He smirks.  
  
Certainly, he wasn't this temptable before.  
  
“Who's going to water your plants?” Crowley leans on the counter, elbows digging into his ledger, and he pulls his glasses down his nose, just a bit, until Aziraphale is staring into yellow and orange and gold.  
  
“I don't water them, I spritz them.”  
  
“Of course you do.” Aziraphale clears his throat, places one hand on the ledge and attempts to tug it free, but Crowley's weight is firmly on it, and crinkling the paper too. “Who's going to spritz them then?”  
  
“They'll survive a few days without us.”  
  
So it's an us now?  
  
“And what if- what if She needs something or- Or perish the thought, Gabriel feels enough guilt to apologize.”  
  
“Is that a very Gabriel thing to do?”  
  
It only takes him a moment to recall his entire life, from creation to this very conversation, and no, he concludes, it's not a very Gabriel thing to do.  
  
“She could need something.”  
  
“She can find you anywhere. Come on, Angel.” Crowley leans even more forward, definitely ruining the page his elbow digs into. “Run away with me.”  
  
He stares into his friend's eyes, and then in microseconds looks around the shop, the few customers in the stacks a bit further in, the way the sun comes in through the window and lands right on the singular plant Crowley gifted him two weeks ago, for his shop technically re-opening. It sits on the counter, never too far from reach and its own spray bottle sitting just beside it. There's an entire world in this one singular moment.  
  
He thinks of every excuse he could make. Not many come to mind, just four, which are, in order: 

  1.  He was called to head office because he had to officiate the body he currently inside of.
  2.  Anathema and Newt actually invited him and only him over for a picnic, and he didn't want to hurt Crowley's feelings.
  3.  He had promised Adam a lesson in the celestial bodies and divinity, just in case.
  4.  He didn't want to leave the shop again so soon.



  
Crowley's right eyebrow arcs up in that way that only Crowley's right eyebrow can and Aziraphale, after thinking his choices over every carefully, nods.  
  
“A break could be nice.” He says and tries to imagine himself not getting dizzy.  
  
“I'll swing by tomorrow then.” And then Crowley, never to be outdone by anyone, even himself, takes Aziraphale's hand in his and runs his lips over Aziraphale's knuckles. “Say noon?”  
  
Aziraphale has to psychically stop himself from saying the word noon out loud.  
  
“Lovely.”  
  
The Bentley rips down the street, and one of his non-customers tells him that they make a very cute couple.  
  
It's very hard to imagine being not dizzy when he is, without a doubt, most assuredly dizzy. 

  
…

  
Aziraphale sits in the passenger side of the Bentley and stares at Crowley's reflection through the windshield.  
  
He looks so in awe, so proud of himself, face absolutely alight with joy, that it's hard to look at what's actually past the windshield.  
  
“Do you like them?” Crowley asks after what must have been a short eternity, and turns to look at Aziraphale head on.  
  
“Utterly remarkable.” He says and pretends to be preoccupied with the stars all around them.  
  
“Hung them myself.”  
  
Aziraphale turns now, to look at him fully, to try and tell if it's a joke or trick or some other demonic wile. But something in his voice makes it sound like he's being sincere and serious. Maybe it's the softness, or the way Crowley pulls off his glasses and the way his eyes look just a little sad.  
  
“Superb job.” Some part of him, in the back of his mind, is rather confused.  
  
Normal angels didn't get to do something so important, even principalities didn't baring a few exceptions, and maybe right now in this moment when he is inches away from his arguably sad looking best friend isn't the time to, finally after six thousand years, start wondering who Crowley was before his fall, but it certainly does seem to be the only thing his mind can really rest on.  
  
“Ah- You know.” Crowley smiles in a way that doesn't reach his eyes. “Barely any effort.”  
  
“They are-” Aziraphale forces himself to look away from the spectacle and look at the stars. They really are remarkable, glorious blues and reds and yellows and whites hanging in just the perfect pattern to make them look random. But he can see the little patterns, here and there, a little face just obscured by a star cradle and a little love heart tilted on its side. “They're resplendent.”  
  
And then, struck by a fit of brazenness, he reaches out and takes Crowley's hand.  
  
Gives it a squeeze.    
  
When Crowley smiles this time, it most certainly reaches his eyes. 

  
…

  
Aziraphale is enjoying his vacation tremendously.  
  
It's all very curious, the life forms this far from earth are not fully developed yet, perhaps not under Her immediate vigilance yet, so every interaction leaves them marveling in awe at the angel and Aziraphale would be lying if he wasn't succumbing to pride.  
  
He was enjoying his vacation immensely.  
  
Crowley showed  him oceans that were so many different colors, and filled with so many wonderful things that it's almost tempting to just move here, leave it all behind, and just lay in the sand with his best and very funny and lovely friend, who clearly had very good taste in vacation destinations and very good taste in planetary creation.  
  
This was undoubtedly the best vacation he's ever had.  
  
And it still wasn't enough to get him to stop wondering.  
  
If he would be home, he would be pouring over thousands of texts, maybe even risk a trip to the home office and ask Gabriel or Uriel or Michael outright. Certainly, they owed him a favor of some kind. Or maybe they would want him to leave so quickly they'd just blurt out an answer and eject him.  
  
His feelings wouldn't even be hurt.  
  
On the other hand, he could ask.  
  
“The only shame- The only shame.” Crowley gives a short sort of laugh beside him. “With the underdeveloped species business. No alcohol yet.”  
  
But it does seem very rude.  
  
“Some wine right now would be phenomenal,” Aziraphale says in a way that he hopes sounds invested in the conversation.  
  
He wouldn't want to be asked, if he was in this situation.  
  
“I'd kill for a margarita.” Crowley sits up, sand trailing off of his back. Aziraphale stares because it really is a wonderful back and it doesn't have any scars above the shoulder blades or below the shoulder blades or anywhere on his lower back either. “Well-”  
  
“We could always go back.” He says offhandedly. “I can buy you a margarita. No murder required.” Not that he would in the first place.  
  
He is rather nice, for a demon, isn't he?  
  
What angel was nice?  
  
There had to be at least a few.  
  
Right? 

  
…

  
He comes back home a week later with a tan.  
  
“It suits you.” Crowley insists who's still the same shade of skin he was when they left. “Really, it does. Brings out your eyes.”  
  
Aziraphale smiles because that's so very easy to do.  
  
They come back late, sun already set, and Crowley, ever the gentleman, walks him to the door of his shop. It looks fairly unlooted, everything right where he left it. Aziraphale's plant just as shiny and healthy as it was how ever long the vacation had lasted for. He does walk over and mist it all the same while Crowley is very busy leaning against the door frame.  
  
“Would you like to come in? Spend the night catching up on all of those missed margaritas?”  
  
“I would, but I've not yelled at my plants for a while.”  
  
“Ah. And that's... very important. Yelling at plants.”  
  
“How are they meant to grow otherwise?” Aziraphale glances at the plant on the counter. It seems to have been doing just fine on it's one, no yelling required.  
  
“Right, of course.” He nods slowly. “Good night then?”  
  
“Good night, Angel.”  
  
The second the door closes behind him he has three bibles open, and starts the arduous cross-referencing because, surely, there's an answer in here somewhere isn't there?  
  
There simply must be.  
  


…

  
“Do you remember?”  
  
“Does it matter?”  
  
Does it- Does it matter if the demon he had been spending his life with used to be an archangel? Does it matter that Raphael's name had been shunted aside and forgotten by everyone who wasn't looking for it? Does it matter that Aziraphale spent a month of his time pouring through texts and books and scrolls trying to find an answer to who hung those resplendent stars in the sky eons ago? Does it really matter that if Aziraphale knew then, at the garden, that everything probably would have been so very very very different between them?  
  
“No. Suppose not.”  
  
They're in a lovely park, sitting on a picnic blanket and watching humans walk by. They have chilled champagne and little blueberry tarts that Aziraphale got from this tiny bakery in Ireland. He had leaned in to ask Crowley, shoulder against shoulder, lips just a few tiny spaces away from Crowley's ear.  
  
“The name thing- the name thing is weird, isn't it?”  
  
“Hm?”  
  
“Yours and, well.” Crowley waves a hand, curling his wrist. Oh- Oh, yes.  
  
“A bit.” He leans away, body flushed as he stares at Crowley's long pretty fingers. “Crowley is a good name.”  
  
“I think so too. Obviously. Otherwise-”  
  
“Why would you have picked it?”  
  
Crowley laughs and turns his head and kisses Aziraphale.  
  
Thank everything good and awful and altogether neutral in the entire wide world that he doesn't actually have to breathe.

 

**Author's Note:**

> comments are always encouraged and very very very appreciated
> 
> find me on[ tumblr ](http://iamalivenow.tumblr.com/) and [ twitter](https://twitter.com/licotain)


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